


Crown

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Non-Immortal (The Old Guard), Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Sex, Assassin Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Assassination Attempt(s), Assassination Plot(s), Banter, Bottom Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Companionable Snark, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Flirting, Hand Jobs, Humour, Kink Meme, M/M, Making Out, No Angst, Plot Twists, Prince Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Resolved Sexual Tension, Revolution, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Snark, Sort Of, Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29909592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: "You're not very good at this," Yusuf comments. He's got a shit-eating grin playing around his lips, which are framed by faint smudges of shaving soap clinging at the corners, and a twinkle in his eye and, yes, Nicolò's best knife, hence why Nicolò isgraciouslyallowing him to speak.That, and the ropes."Well?" he prods.Not one to keep a man with a knife waiting, he finally mumbles, "You tripped me." It is, after all, factually correct.Yusuf gives him a look that might translate to either astonishment or some form of annoyance; hard to tell as Nicolò often incites both, frequently at the same time. He pointedly says, "Because you're not very good at this."In which Nicolò is a more than adequate assassin (thank you very much!) sent to kill Prince Yusuf, who refuses to cooperate with what was supposed to be a quick and easy murder plot.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 37
Kudos: 225





	Crown

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/7393.html?thread=2641633#cmt2641633) Kink Mere prompt: _Joe is a crown prince soon to ascend the throne! Nicky is an assassin paid to kill him but he falls in love with him instead!_ (I took some, uh, liberties. :D)
> 
> This fic is brought to you by my caffeine addiction and an apology for being behind on all of my WIPs in favour of this. And a subsequent apology for the fact that this won't be the last time I sideline my WIPs. <3
> 
> Happy reading!

"You're not very good at this," Yusuf comments. He's got a shit-eating grin playing around his lips, which are framed by faint smudges of shaving soap clinging at the corners, and a twinkle in his eye and, yes, Nicolò's best knife, hence why Nicolò is _graciously_ allowing him to speak.

That, and the ropes.

"Well?" he prods.

Snapping at him now would not be the best course of action, Nicolò is fully aware. See above: knife.

Then again, Yusuf is twirling it between two of his fingers rather haphazardly while waiting for a reply. Having no idea whether knife hand-acrobatics are a sign of confidence or amateurish hubris is, Nicolò decides, very far from a relief; in fact, it may be a worst-case scenario. Granted, Yusuf's grin has grown so sharp he might cut himself with that one first, but Nicolò is privately betting on the knife, hence the fountain of continued patience he is drawing on as he quietly gnashes his teeth.

Not one to keep a man with a knife waiting, he finally mumbles, "You tripped me." It is, after all, factually correct.

Yusuf gives him a look that might translate to either astonishment or some form of annoyance; hard to tell as Nicolò often incites both, frequently at the same time. He pointedly says, "Because you're not very good at this."

Nicolò would like nothing more than to deny such allegations, but there's a voice at the back of his head telling him this is a trick of some sort. Some time ago, alerted by the sound of Nicolò's fall on his face and subsequent (if inadvertent) capture, the guards tried the door, but, after they scrambled to enter and failed, were told by a worryingly unconcerned Yusuf that he'd simply knocked over some items from his nightstand while replacing a book. Gracelessly burning the midnight oil, as it were. If any of them are wearing a hole into the carpeting on the other side of the door, Nicolò hasn't heard a peep.

Now that Nicolò is paying actual attention to his rather nimble hands, Yusuf seems to know his way around a knife better than he initially let on. Although the reports from court indicated Yusuf to be not, you know, _deranged_ , royalty tends to favour that side of human nature in peculiar ways.

"Are you going to let me go?" Nicolò tries.

Although his unnatural calmness and soft-spoken words often serve to unsettle, Yusuf merely scoffs. He does, however, stop playing with Nicolò's blade, gingerly setting it down on the floor by his feet. Their chairs are identical, but only Nicolò is inconveniently tied to his.

The best that can be said is that Yusuf doesn't appear to be the sort of cheerfully unhinged tyrant that would jump at the chance to inflict some damage, although the lack of predictability isn't the boon Nicolò wishes it would be. With someone visibly gleeful at the prospect of chopping you into bits they'd have to get in close in order to do so. Dealing with Yusuf will be much more complicated.

"Why should I?"

Narrowing his eyes, Nicolò tries to temper his heart and grasp at a plan. Failure to escape cannot possibly mean good things for his general wellbeing. His is certainly not a profession with a high life expectancy, therefore it shouldn't come as a surprise. However, Yusuf is looking less and less like he might enjoy delivering him to his fate, and Nicolò might be shit where this particular assassination gig is concerned, but he knows an opening when he sees one.

"Because you're not a killer."

Once more Yusuf scoffs. This time he also rises and crosses the room to linger by the furniture at the opposite wall. For a long moment, he stands in profile, seemingly staring at nothing, as in there is nothing on that side of the room to warrant any type of prolonged attention.

Under different circumstances Nicolò might assume he's about to search for more rope or a better weapon, or, as any sane person would, to call in the guards. Instead, he turns to open the wardrobe doors before starting to disrobe.

"Uh," Nicolò says rather intelligently.

Back facing him, Yusuf is obviously fiddling with the tiny buttons running down his torso from neck to groin on the lush robe he's wearing over his sleep tunic. They're particularly shiny and awfully distracting when you're being interrogated by an attractive man with a knife, but at least they meant Yusuf was _clothed_.

It's all vaguely surreal. Once he's finished with the buttons and the robe is discarded on a nearby stool, he starts on the laces at the neck of his tunic.

"What," Nicolò wheezes before this can go on any longer, "are you doing?"

Yusuf twists around at the waist, peering at him over the crest of his shoulder. "Your timing is very poor. However," he amends, giving Nicolò a once-over, "make yourself useful, by which I mean stop struggling to slip the ropes, and I'll give you your knife back."

Glancing briefly at said knife, Nicolò licks his lips before he can stifle the gesture. He's being obvious, but, then again, his arms are tied behind him and his legs have each been secured to a leg of the chair he's sitting in. The fact that he's not yet lying bleeding on the floor is truly astounding.

On the other hand, relying on the decency of the Prince into whose bedchamber you snuck into in order to slit said Prince's throat doesn't fill Nicolò with huge amounts of hope for his being freed without some form of damage to his person beforehand. He might not be squeamish around other people's blood, but he has a terrible suspicion he's not going to enjoy seeing his own.

"Ah! The slinking shadow at my window has misplaced his tongue, hmm?"

Nicolò most certainly does not _slink_ , and he would certainly have choice words on the matter, were it not for part where he is, in fact, trying to slip the ropes.

Cheerful conversation with one's target, he's reasonably certain, is not only frowned upon but heavily discouraged.

In hindsight, Nicolò muses, he should have opted for the crossbow. _That_ never failed to put the necessary distance between him and a target. But live targets tend to move, while finding a bolt in your pillow after you've just rolled over in bed tends to get you moving even more. Besides, reloading takes time.

Tipping his chin up, effectively baring his throat in a blatantly artificial display of submission, he says with as much nonchalance as he can muster in the face of broad shoulders and the most lickable pecs he's ever had the pleasure of staring at unashamedly as they peek through a very flimsy nightshirt, "I am simply wondering at your keenness to... disrobe." He does _not_ gulp down too much saliva.

Yusuf's head jerks forward. "You've interrupted me on the wrong night, I'm afraid."

Technically, it is closer to morning than not, but Nicolò isn't about to squabble about the clock when Yusuf's tunic is now hanging by his shoulders, flimsy laces criss-crossing across a lovely triangle of bared skin below his collarbone.

It occurs to him they are in a small waiting room of sorts from the bedroom itself, with no place for him to shy away from Nicolò's gaze. Not that it should matter given Nicolò's intentions were to sully the carpeting with his blood regardless of which room they so happened to be in. However, Yusuf could return to his bedroom to change, although Nicolò can see how leaving him alone, regardless of his current tied-up state, might be a courtesy too far. And Yusuf has been _exceedingly_ courteous by not, you know, slitting Nicolò's throat.

It occurs to Nicolò that, even beyond his mere presence here, this is a very strange situation. He narrows his eyes.

"You are not... what you are." It is a statement only by virtue of punctuation, as Nicolò has numerous questions all scrambling for precedence.

"You found your tongue, I see," he says, clicking his own against the roof of his mouth, one eyebrow cocked. It's another non-answer, Nicolò cannot help but observe. "Any chance you might lose it again?"

Nicolò grins. "Good point. I'll see to it. Just as soon as you untie me." He hopes his teeth look sharp even from across the room.

Yusuf doesn't waste more than an eye roll on this newest show of spirit (Nicolò has been told he is very spirited, usually by authority figures prior to their tasting their own blood at Nicolò's hand), continuing to absent-mindedly fiddle with the laces, Nicolò thinks, a little unnecessarily. To Nicolò's unsurprising disappointment, he turns around fully, back to Nicolò, presumably to lift the tunic completely off his body.

Then, he... stops, the hem barely lifted a couple of centimetres. This time, when he glances at Nicolò over his shoulder, he actually looks sheepish.

"I would apologise for this level of impropriety at not vacating the room for this," Yusuf says, sounding for a moment truly contrite, "but you knocked both oil lamps to the ground when you were crashing about earlier," he reminds him.

Although he could gladly say _And whose fault was that?_ Nicolò fears he may grind his teeth into nothing at having the whole being tripped part pointed out to him yet again.

Instead, he makes a noncommittal noise, followed by an offhand, "Nothing I haven't seen before," to which Yusuf replies with, "Noted," which is probably meant to sound vaguely disinterested, yet causes alarm bells to start ringing inside Nicolò's head.

Before turning away again, Yusuf softly says, "You could close your eyes," but Nicolò stares him down to mutter, "Not necessary," a little more aggressively than is probably, strictly speaking, necessary.

But Yusuf simply shrugs.

And proceeds to chuck his tunic by one-handedly gripping it at the nape and bending slightly forward to remove it in one swift movement.

Even with a warning, walking into a wall would have left Nicolò feeling less as if he's been smacked in the face.

Sadly, his arse is truly _magnificent_. And very distracting. Focusing on the dimples at the base of his spine is interrupted by a noise of frustration from Yusuf at apparently not finding what he's been looking for. Nicolò watches him discard robe after robe, each more colourful than the previous.

He sets some musty-looking linen aside and goes back to reaching as far back into the wardrobe as his arm allows, presumably in search of a set of clothes to replace those he has taken off. Whatever his plans, it's doubtful nudity is either preferred or advisable.

Fully aware all of a sudden that time is of the essence and not trusting any promises of release, much less in the likely hands of the palace guards, Nicolò decides to test the waters.

"Yours is not a particularly big country," he points out a little tartly.

He doesn't have what one could call a sturdy grip on a plan, but he'd rather grasp at a reaction than sit and wait. A worm of suspicion by way of limiting the pool of suspects is as good of a plan as any, though he's uncertain towards whom he's going with this particular bait.

Yusuf turns around abruptly at the waist, eyebrow arched. "For a small country, guess who's the one tied to a chair."

 _Well._ Nicolò would like to, perhaps nonsensically, gripe that there's nothing small happening here, but it seems rather heavy-handed given Yusuf's sudden and unlikely state of undress.

"Now don't pout. You're starting to resemble a container of salt." He gives Nicolò a quick once-over. "Or a lemon."

"Why are you still naked?"

"Hmm. You're distracting me," and, true to his word, he turns fully around to glance about the room, even more visibly frustrated.

Seemingly, he's decided full nudity is now appropriate in lieu of either engaging Nicolò in conversation or covering himself up while he finds whatever it is he's looking for. Never mind Nicolò is suddenly feeling very exposed with both legs splayed while encased in a rather, uh, snug pair of trousers he selected for their ease of moment, not having counted on his prick having an unfortunately embarrassing reaction to one of the most attractive men he's ever seen being very unconcernedly nude.

So much for eliciting a reaction.

He watches as Yusuf walks to a second, smaller set of drawers, rifling through all of them before giving up with a heavy sigh and puckered lips, and returning to the initial wardrobe.

Compartmentalising is everything, but there's only so much of it Nicolò can muster tonight. Consequently, a part of him which may or may not be located in his trousers certainly wants nothing more than to grip those curls at their roots and _pull pull pull_ , and, after eliciting as many noises as he can from that act, lick Yusuf all over in case some other groans and moans could still be drawn from his mouth.

He watches him turn at the waist and look about the room, a weighty glance mostly directed towards the window.

He must slip a look, then, to that effect. And Yusuf must catch it.

His gaze changes.

"Oh." Then, "We don't have time for that." But his face turns pensive.

Quelling his embarrassment enough to speak, Nicolò grunts out, "Does your schedule not permit it?" He's being facetious. Being tied to a chair does that to a person.

Yusuf laughs. He approaches, soft cock swinging a bit between his legs. Either Nicolò is hallucinating, or the tip's gotten shiny since he first saw it revealed. He's suddenly parched.

"Your tongue is wagging again. I'm tempted to shorten it, but I fear your blood may rust the blade on your fancy knife."

Nicolò scoffs. "It will do no such thing. Try it," he offers, chest arching forward in his bounds. If Yusuf were to close the distance, Nicolò is reasonably certain he could make an attempt, if only to bite and maw. Might indeed slip the ropes, or try to. However, Yusuf doesn't take the bait this time either.

"If you utter one more word out of turn, you _will_ see the truth of that statement."

"Do you swear it?" Nicolò goads.

"It's a promise." His eyes have a sharp glint to them which has Nicolò shivering and makes him wet up at the tip in his britches, but shortly Yusuf sighs and shakes his head. "I can't fuck you."

"Why not?" It's a whine. Nicolò is man enough to admit it.

For his part, Yusuf tsks a little impatiently—well, a lot impatiently but not unkindly, which, to Nicolò's mind, mightily softens it.

"You are very naked," Nicolò points out.

It's not an unreasonable thing to point out given the circumstantial relevance, never mind the visual proof before Nicolò's eyes. Granted, Yusuf seems to be trying to become less naked, but the sentiment still stands, especially as he isn't trying as hard as he could be.

Yusuf says, "Not for long."

After several minutes of essentially ransacking his own chambers, though never far enough away from Nicolò not to scold him for rubbing his wrists together and shifting his legs (both ultimately futile where escaping is concerned), Yusuf finally finds and dons the clothing he's been looking for all along, which turn out not to be very dissimilar to Nicolò's own—dark trousers, dark tunic, both fitted and utterly nondescript. As unprincely as they come. He slips his feet into a pair of shabby-looking boots he procures from a small opening in the wall panels Nicolò never noticed. Once laced up, however, his shoes look sturdy and like the sort of thing you'd need to nimbly escape a difficult situation.

Nicolò frowns. And not only because royalty, apparently, tends to eschew wearing smallclothes.

"What happens now?" He sounds sombre to his own ears.

Yusuf rolls his eyes. "Don't nag. I'm leaving you here for the guards to find," he beams.

"How absolutely thrilling for me," he deadpans.

"That, or they'll search the wreckage for survivors after they extinguish the flames," he says matter-of-factly.

Nicolò licks his lips. A sneaking suspicion—an unsettling thought if you will—has started bubbling up that he is the presence of an unhinged person, who, however attractive, is as likely to set proverbial fire to the room with him in it as not.

"Excuse me?" he croaks.

Yusuf stares unblinkingly, then cracks into a grin. "A lark!" he laughs. He cocks his head, mouth pursed. "You _did_ attempt a royal assassination on my unsuspecting person. What did you expect?"

"Couldn't say," he says weakly.

Yusuf's eyes narrow. The air between them changes so suddenly Nicolò doesn't have the opportunity to sort out what's happening before Yusuf speaks again.

"You've never actually killed anyone before," he says, sounding shocked yet absolutely sure.

Nicolò's face basically catches on fire, no time to school it into something appropriately neutral. (What's happening is that he sounded painfully candid a moment ago, before Yusuf became suspicious, and he can't seem to stop now.) He confesses, "Not in so many words."

Yusuf gives him a long and very sceptical look.

Nicolò says, "Injured and incapacitated only." Then he adds, a little defensively, "There was never any _need_."

Several beats pass, Nicolò's words landing between them like a thump with no echo. Yusuf doesn't so much lack a reaction as seems to be having several at the same time, all of them on the inside. From where Nicolò is sitting, he looks utterly conflicted for a long moment for reasons that don't become clear to Nicolò until Yusuf says one word: "Quỳnh."

The gears turn quickly, adrenaline pumping in his veins. "You're our source from inside the castle."

Before either can say more, the sound of stomping feet is quickly followed by a knock at the bedroom door. Both still.

Yusuf does his Prince Yusuf thing. It's very impressive to listen to. He goes back into the dark bedroom behind Nicolò and pretends to be annoyed at the disturbance while the door remains decidedly locked. This time Nicolò definitely hears footsteps scurrying off.

When he comes back, he tells him, "I thought you were an assassin for hire what with the, uh, attempted assassination." His frown is deep, but it's apparent the gears are churning for him, too.

"I was. I am." Nicolò sighs. If there were a way to do this smoothly, he doesn't know how that would go. He settles on the truth. At this point there is little to lose, and, Nicolò suspects, much more to gain. "This is my city. We don't need another king. We don't want carnage either. I _offered_."

Yusuf doesn't betray any expression, but his voice is deeper when he says, "What do you do?"

"People can be difficult. I make things easier."

"Ah."

He says, "It was the right thing to do," and tries to sound certain. Yusuf only nods once in the face of simple certainty Nicolò can't even be sure he properly conveyed.

But then he bends at the waist, retrieves Nicolò's knife, and then he circles him to begin cutting his arms and wrists free. His legs come next, Yusuf crouching in front of him. This close, Nicolò could grab him easily by the hair and knee him in the face; he doesn't.

Once free, Nicolò stands, with Yusuf moving away.

"Did you have a—"

"Yes, yes I did."

"How did you—"

"It wasn't easy." He hands Nicolò his knife back, handle first. Nicolò takes it, testing its weight, revelling in the leftover heat from Yusuf's hand. He sheaths it at the waist to hang from his belt. "I thought my brother had discovered what I was doing and sent someone to, uh..."

"Take care of you?" Nicolò offers. Seems the worm of suspicion was already there.

Yusuf shrugs. "Me stepping down means he's next in line to the throne. Overthrowing the monarchy altogether means there's no throne anymore. I'd be tetchy, too." He frowns. "For a given value of _tetchy_." His face brightens. "I like to think I'd take democracy well," he says mock-cheerfully.

Nicolò was wrong. Yusuf is very much off his nut.

Then again, he himself willingly joined the effort to forcefully topple the local royalty by assassinating its prince the night before his coronation. Pot, kettle, etcetera.

He has a lot of pressing questions, but settles on, "Were you going to... _flee_ the castle?"

Throwing his arms in the air, Yusuf says, "I thought the lot of you were going to storm it! What was I supposed to do? Sit here and knit myself funerary attire?" He clicks his tongue and his gaze circles around the room. "Not that it occurred to me you'd use my _very valuable information_ ," he says pointedly enough it might as well be a wasp sting, "to sneak in and murder the messenger." He crosses his arms over his chest with a huff.

"Is that why—"

"Yes," and now he's starting to sound frustrated, as if put-upon to explain something tremendously simple to a stubborn child, but Nicolò notices he steps in until they're nearly toe to toe in order to do so, which he hardly minds. "I was shaving the beard about a dozen painters have depicted in about as many paintings strewn around this building when you burst in. And I could hardly leave in my nightgown." He visibly cringes. "Sorry about that." Nicolò almost laughs.

Instead, he asks his next very pressing question. "What now?"

*

It turns out that being a prince on the run suits Yusuf terribly well to the point where Nicolò, were it not for the fact that he is currently rappelling down a rather tall wall with minimal visibility while steering clear of guards armed to the teeth with various pointy implements, would be tempted to side-eye him. Then again, he's entirely doubtful that Yusuf would see him in the dark, and, if you ask him, half the fun of a dirty look is seeing the affront on the other person's face.

It truly is impressive that as skilled as Nicolò is at descending a castle in pitch darkness, Yusuf seems to have little trouble keeping up. It helps that he packed a satchel and not much else for his travels, though Nicolò vaguely wonders whether a prince (shortly to become a commoner) has other means of procuring coin. Or perhaps other valuable possessions squirreled away.

It occurs to Nicolò as they are making their way across the castle grounds, taking the twists and turns he committed to memory days ago from Quỳnh's strict instructions, which he now realises Yusuf conveyed by virtue of being their source, that he hasn't a clue whether taking Yusuf along is the right decision at all. However, considering he could have been turned over to the guards ten times over with virtually no consequence for Yusuf himself, Nicolò decides he'd rather take a leap of faith than sabotage their unlikely truce.

Once deposited outside the castle gates by tunnels no one of Nicolò's acquaintance has ever suspected might exist, Yusuf finally breaks the silence they've been maintaining for the entire duration of their escape to say, "No, this is _not_ a particularly big country."

The change in the atmosphere is instantaneous, like sparks before a storm, but Nicolò doesn't visibly startle. He makes an inquiring noise in this throat as his heart jackrabbits inside his chest.

"It's only that I thought about what you said earlier. That this is _your_ city. In a small, insignificant country. And I wondered that a stranger or a foreigner should care, is all." His tone is politely neutral.

It's Nicolò's turn to lead the way through the streets he's walked probably tens of thousands of times or more, Yusuf at his back. Light is slowly creeping along the horizon, and Nicolò doesn't answer for what should be an uncomfortably long amount of time, not until he spots the roof of Booker's house, the one with the weathervane with the silhouette of a cat on top. Two shingles are missing that Nicolò jokingly offered to help in replacing should he return unharmed from his mission.

"That's because," he finally says, "I'm neither a stranger nor a foreigner." He crosses the cobblestone-lined street to Booker's front door, Yusuf perennially on his tail as if throughout the night he's managed to successfully transform into Nicolò's shadow.

He's casually certain that's the end of this particular conversational line, unless Yusuf would like to question him further and turn an amicable exchange into an uncomfortable interrogation, but Nicolò doubts Yusuf is that sort. A brief glance over his shoulder at his expression more than tells Nicolò they both know where they stand here.

Then he turns back to facing the house and inhales sharply, as if more air in his lungs is going to prepare him for a very awkward morning, and climbs the two steps from street level to the front door. He doesn't move to knock, however, and both stand in silence, Yusuf on the step below.

After a while Yusuf clears his throat. "Are you going to—"

" _Yes._ " He doesn't mean to sound impatient, but it's been a busy night.

His knock is comically distinctive, echoing faintly up and down the empty street, but the reaction is almost immediate.

Even with his face barely visible through the minute crack in the now-open front door, Nicolò doesn't miss Booker's expression falling hard enough it might as well be crashing up and down the street. Nicolò doesn't cringe by virtue of sheer force of will.

Very distinctly though quietly, Booker says, "Oh, _no_ ," eyes directly falling behind Nicolò, who would have appreciated the chance to _explain_. (Unclear what explanation he could have given to the Prince essentially following him home as if he's picked up a stray cat rather than the person he was sent to kill in his sleep, but he would have appreciated a questioning facial expression or two from Booker nonetheless.)

When he wearily turns his head, he catches the tail end of Yusuf's jaunty wave and the same shit-eating grin he's had the dubious pleasure of witnessing earlier in the night. Almost makes Nicolò miss being tied to a chair.

*

On point of pride alone, Quỳnh would never burst into a room. Right now, she does the closest thing to bursting, which happens to be a brisk walk once around Nicolò's bedroom, then a sudden stop in the middle as he's still closing the door behind them.

He's wearing loose sleep trousers and he's very wet from the best bath he's had all week by virtue of hiding himself in the tub until the water got lukewarm. It isn't so much that he's avoiding every person under this roof as he's endeavouring to put his thoughts in some sort of order, starting with all of his Yusuf-related ones.

His flushed face gets hotter at her expression, but he stands his ground and tries to look inscrutable. Which translates to clearing his throat and matching Quỳnh's stare until she rolls her eyes.

"Not to interrupt," she says smoothly, "but you sort of left us with what I can only assume is the Crown Prince, whom you've kidnapped. Because of _reasons_." She's shaking her head all the while, face descending into surprisingly new depths of astonishment with each passing second. "Explain?" she asks, sounding as if she has little hope for a genuine explanation.

Nicolò sighs. "Did he tell you he's been your source inside the castle this entire time?"

"He did," she says, "but that doesn't explain why he's _here_."

"I interrupted him on the wrong night," he says noncommittally.

Quỳnh pauses for a beat, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "And what night would that be, exactly?"

"The one where he decided to step down from the throne while joining the revolutionaries he's been aiding the entire time, I would imagine," he says simply.

Her jaw might as well be hitting the floor. "Nico!"

He throws his arms to the side, but then lets them fall anticlimactically. The bath helped, but he feels wrong-footed speaking _for_ Yusuf, though he's sure he got this right. He must have. They understood each other when Yusuf returned his knife and when they locked eyes in the street.

"He _could_ be a spy, I will grant you that, and freely; but I feel that he isn't. There is no _reason_."

Quỳnh squints at him until she evidently grows tired of a one-sided staring game. They've all likely been awake the entire night. Nicolò himself is feeling his body trying to shut down, craving food and sleep, though mostly the latter.

"On your head," she says tiredly. Nicolò suspects she wouldn't be allowing Yusuf entry were she not at least a little convinced.

"What next?" he asks.

"I'll have him bring you breakfast. If he doesn't poison it I might reconsider."

Before she exits the room, Nicolò has to ask, "Why did you give him your name?" To which Quỳnh opens and closes her mouth a couple of times in a strange imitation of a fish until she eventually says, "Show of trust?" She looks faintly sheepish.

It sounds like a question, so Nicolò nods in understanding. Although she does roll her eyes before leaving him be, it's entirely good-natured.

Once alone, Nicolò dons his sleep tunic and barely has a minute to himself before a faint knock ushers in Yusuf with a plate of bread and hard cheese in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. He's barefoot, wearing nondescript loose clothes Nicolò assumes he plans on sleeping in. He's a little flushed and a few of his curls look damp at the edges, which Nicolò surmises means he's had a chance for a quick wash of his own.

He looks equally tired to how Nicolò feels. A sleepless night of dodging an assassination attempt on your person followed by fleeing a castle before the armed guards caught you out tends to do that. Nevertheless, he's made an effort to look presentable. Nicolò perks up.

Catching the change in Nicolò instantly, he squints, shoulders vaguely tensing. One might easily describe his expression as suspicious, which Nicolò reckons is fair enough. "What's going on with you?"

"You tell me."

Yusuf motions gently with both hands. "I was sent in with these." To Nicolò's relief, after only a moment's pause, he briskly makes his way to the table in the corner to divest himself of both the glass and the plate.

Then they stand at opposite ends of the room, merely looking at each other for a long moment.

Nicolò says, "The door doesn't lock."

Yusuf nods. "I heard the coronation is postponed. Unsurprising," he rolls his eyes briefly. "Everyone was talking about it in the kitchen. And I was instructed not to leave the house," he grins.

Nicolò's mouth is very dry. "Were you planning on leaving?"

Yusuf pauses, then he shakes his head. Another long moment passes before they both finally move.

The kiss is too sudden to be anything less than rough, but once they both tilt their heads and lean into it they have no trouble turning it deep and leisurely.

He feels his face burn at how insistently he probes at the seam of Yusuf's mouth, but he gains entrance shortly with a moan that seems to have come from the depths of Yusuf's chest. Nicolò cups his cheeks, his thumbs caressing his prickly skin. He wants to feel him when his beard's grown back in fully. Feel it between his thighs. He groans at the idea, sliding their tongues against each other, and Yusuf encircles him at the waist. His palms are hot through his clothes.

He moves away first in order to pepper his cheek and neck with kisses, but before Yusuf can return the favour he slips out of his arms, one step back out of the bubble of desperate breaths growing between them.

When Nicolò's fingers begin unlacing his sleep trousers, his eyes track his movements unblinkingly. His throat moves as he swallows. A shiver runs down Nicolò's spine, intensifying when his trousers drop around his ankles and Yusuf's eyes darken further. His smallclothes can hardly hide much and his tunic barely brushes his upper thighs.

"Well, _that's_ forward," Yusuf mutters, though he sounds more than a little winded.

"Is it?"

"Not to mention we're basically in public," he comments. Factually incorrect, especially as Andromache has spent precisely zero nights in her bed since Nicolò's been under this roof, but he will let it slide this time.

"Mouthy, aren't you?"

Yusuf barks out a laugh, shaking his head. "You're one to speak."

But as he watches Nicolò continue disrobing he starts on his own tunic and trousers, leaving them in a heap. The only window in the bedroom is very high and very small, and Nicolò wishes for candlelight to fully appreciate the angles of his body. Seeing it again hasn't diminished its beauty any. And, unlike before, Yusuf's cock is hard and heavy, bobbing against its own weight in front of him, and Nicolò has to stroke himself a couple of times watching it drip at the tip.

When he steps back his time, he drags Yusuf with him by the shoulders, mouths meeting in butterfly kisses that turn sloppy. Falling onto the bed, Nicolò drags Yusuf down with him to settle between his thighs.

"Do you want—"

Locking eyes, Nicolò grips his hand to guide his fingers between his legs. As fingertips brush his furled hole, he tries to push out, lower body incrementally relaxing into the touch. "I was busy in the tub for a long time," and Yusuf groans into his neck, his breaths stuttering in a shocked-sounding laugh.

His voice is muffled by Nicolò's collarbone, but he can hear him perfectly. "You planned this." It's not a question, thus Nicolò can only shrug and drag the sides of his knees along his ribs before reaching down underneath the bed for his satchel.

The fact that he almost falls onto the floor but for Yusuf's weight pinning his legs as he stretches to retrieve the oil should be more embarrassing, but he gets Yusuf's fingers oiled and searching beneath his balls in short order. And then, after they work him over together for a deliciously long time, his cock is finally poking at his rim. Objectively, this is the worst position for this, Nicolò's back at an unlikely angle, even with Yusuf's hands supporting its curve, but like this they can kiss, which Nicolò prefers to minor details such as personal comfort.

He manages to relax and push out as Yusuf's slick cock presses in, bottoming out in what feels like centuries' worth of his insides slowly rearranging themselves around his length. He allows him to adjust, the stretch wide enough Nicolò feels it _in his throat_ , before pulling out nearly all the way.

The next thrust has him arching and splaying his legs wider, Yusuf gifting him with that moaning groan Nicolò can't seem to get enough of once he hears it again and again and _again_.

"Core me into messes," he gasps wetly against the side of his face. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense, some vague idea behind it of Nicolò wanting to open up even more. Heady catharsis through their bodies coming together.

Yusuf's hips falter, then push faster, deeper. His palm searches out the space between them. Nicolò groans, rolling his hips up into Yusuf's hand helplessly, effectively meeting his thrusts ruthlessly. The sound of flesh hitting flesh fills the room, and Nicolò _knows_ the both of them will feel the rough strain later. He moans at the thought, slipping his tongue inside Yusuf's mouth. He thinks he'll never tire of the taste.

He runs his palms up and down Yusuf's sides, across the back of his neck near the base of his hair, stroking and petting and handling his body. It's a very nice body, and he uses it now to fuck Nicolò even harder, who moans his appreciation. Their sounds form a loop until Yusuf's hips stutter and press in that one centimetre deeper as he strokes Nicolò with renewed enthusiasm until he makes a mess of Nicolò's hole and of his stomach in heavy streaks.

Yes, Nicolò will definitely feel it later.

*

They don't fall asleep on each other, which would truly be the worst idea, far worse than everything that led to Nicolò's back already aching as he rises from the bed to amble over to the corner of the room where his now decidedly cold leftover bath water resides. Yusuf joins him, and they clean themselves thoroughly.

By the time they're done it's obvious they're barely able to stand on their feet.

"Sleep now, food later," Nicolò mumbles at Yusuf's inquiring look towards the table with the plate and the glass.

He shrugs. And helps Nicolò push Andromache's alleged bed next to Nicolò's with few misgivings. ("Unless you wish to smother me in my sleep, this is the only thing for it. She might not even know where her bedroom is located in the house, so often has she been here, thus I sincerely doubt she's about to reclaim it now.")

For propriety's sake, they retrieve their sleep attire and get dressed before Nicolò shuffles them to the bed and has them intertwined around each other.

Yusuf's face is pressed to his collarbone through his tunic and his thigh is between Nicolò's, who has never felt more held in his life. "Quỳnh said she might trust you if you don't poison my food."

For a second he thinks maybe he's already fallen asleep, but then he hears him mumble, "As long as you don't try slitting my throat again. I don't want to have to tie you to a chair again."

But Nicolò shivers at that, and Yusuf notices, and once the kisses start they don't seem to stop until both their eyes start drooping.

"Sleep," Nicolò finally mumbles into his slack mouth. "We have a monarchy to topple tomorrow."

(It's the best sleep either of them's ever had, the food is perfectly fine some hours later when they wake, and no one makes any attempts on anyone's life, although Nicolò reserves the right to chair-tying outside of foiled assassination attempts.)

**Author's Note:**

> If you've been entertained by my nonsense, please consider leaving a kudos and dropping a comment. I've been trying to finally finish and post this story for some time, and I'd love to know what you think. Stay safe, everyone! <3
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


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